Ch. 10: Tu
Back to The Men in Brown '' He saw Ronnie first. At least, it resembled Ronnie, but a much younger and merrier Ronnie; the harsh lines graven into his long sharp features were not there, nor was there any grey in his red hair, and he was laughing. Forest was beside him, looking exactly the same as how he had when Chris had seen him at the beach: had the dreadful events fallen so recently, then, that turned Ronnie grey? '' '' “This has been a strange year.” Ronnie was saying to Forest. They were on an island with a lake house, and behind them a dock ran out into the water with a floating section farther out, and Bell sat there with another girl who Chris knew somehow was named Brooke, dangling bare feet in the water and talking girl talk. '' '' “Mm.” '' '' “We started out as quite ordinary people,” Ronnie mused, “and now here we’re battling dragons and wielding queer and increasing powers…things are rushing toward some fearsome end, Forest, much grimmer than the mere returning of the Road.” '' '' “To say the least.” muttered Forest. '' '' “Most of the Signs of the Hills have been explained…there’s still the Grapevine, and that Oak, and the date 1790…” '' '' “What is the Cannon?” '' '' “Yes, that’s what the Grapevine indicates. There was an old Revolutionary War cannon that was a town ornament till the Civil War, fired on Independence Day and all, and then it was lost for a while. Boyd wrote his Annals in 1847, I think…or was that 1874? Well, the Cannon figured in a couple of town riots, one time shelling the newspaper building when a mob was mad at the editor. Then it vanished for a few decades, turning up buried somewhere, I think or fished out of a pond, and then was fired off from overlooking hills—Cobble, Street and maybe Camp Hill were mentioned by name. I do know that it vanished again and this time was never found. Wha-at?” as Brooke began repeatedly shouting his name. '' '' “Come out here! We’re having an argument and we need you to settle it!” '' '' “Women.” muttered Ronnie with a smile, rolling his eyes at Forest. He headed out to the dock’s end, ignoring how it bounced and rolled under his feet. '' '' “You have good balance.” said Bell. '' '' “You’d better not have called me out here just to splash me.” he retorted, sitting down. '' '' Brooke laughed. “No, we were having a Tolkien argument and we need a loremaster to settle it.” '' '' “And I am as it so turns out, a Loremaster of Middle-earth.” said Ronnie in a Gandalf voice. '' '' “Okay. Bell insists that there’s a tale of the Garden of Eden, and I told her there wasn’t.” '' '' “Well,” said Ronnie slowly, “in the debate between Finrod and Andreth Wisewoman, she does give a sort of ‘corrupted’ myth of the Fall of Man, while Finrod deduces from the fact that or eyes have a tendency to go blank after we’ve looked at something for a moment…” '' '' “Seeking, seeking, always seeking.” murmered Brooke. '' '' “—Exactly—that we Men once came from a paradise, and from our interior longing he deduces our unfallen condition. But there was a tale, in the Book of Lost Tales part 1, which dealt with the Awaking of Men.” '' '' “Yes!” shouted Bell. “I knew I was right!” '' '' “Not wholly.” said Ronnie. “Tolkien carried it only partway. But you know, there are so many good new writers cropping up these days? I was on the Tolkien Wiki, they have a sub-wiki for Lord of Rings Fan-fiction, and one guy called James Farrell actually undertook to revise the Lost Tales. Complete them, bring them in line with the Silmarillion, integrating it. Quite an ambitious project, but my point is, he also took up that tale.” '' '' “I barely remember it.” said Bell. '' '' “It was a queer one,” said Ronnie slowly. “There was a wizard named Tû, of all things, a fay-being not an Elf, long before the Five came Over-sea, before the Sun. He ruled the Dark-elves around Cuevienon, the lake where the Elves awoke. One Elf named Nuin went into the northeast parts of Middle-earth and found a secret vale full of marvellous plants, and in it many sleeping youths: the Fathers of Men.” '' '' “Oh yes, I remember Men awoke in Hildorien when the Sun first rose.” said Brooke. '' '' “Some men.” Ronnie answered gravely. “Nuin told Tû of his find, and Tû told him he too had been there, and he passed lands laden with evil memory, and the stones spoke to him of abominable rites carried out in the darkness; from which he knew that Men had dwelt here before, but not all served Melkor, and these the One laid asleep, without memory or even speech, the fathers of the Edain, the good men of the North-west of Middle-earth.” '' '' “But I thought Men began when the Sun rose.” '' '' “Tolkien thought it over a lot. He realized that the language-structure of Men was too complicated to have arisen in the mere 400 years between the Rising of the Sun and the Coming of Men into Beleriand. I mean, even English hasn’t changed much in that amount of time. You can still read Shakespeare! Yet you have the folk of Haleth, with one language, Hador with a different dialect, the Druedain with yet another language, and Beor with yet a third, not to mention the Easterlings. And that’s just in Beleriand. '' '' “So he decided Men were made long before, and the sleepers in Eden were those who rebelled against Melkor, and speech was taken from them that the Elves might give them language. And Nuin and Tû guided them, until the darkness of Original Sin began to crop out, and quarrels arose and Men split into three groups. Then a demon named Fankil came and Nuin was betrayed to him by Atrai, whose name lives on as the root of ‘betray’, and Atrai then set all three camps of Men at war. Some stood by the Dark-elves, but most stood by Fankil, and the Elves were slain though their allies escaped. And at the last the ground shook, and Tû, who had grown increasingly to shun the daylight and dwell underground, came forth in great wrath and flayed Atrai alive. '' '' “And Fankil said to him, “’You would fit right in with us! Come and serve Melkor!’ But Tû answered, ‘Men I hate, but thee more, and Melkor most!’ Then he and Fankil fought, and the land broke around them, and Fankil was slain, but Tû buried under falling hills.” '' '' In the strange but natural manner of dreams Chris was no longer listening to them, but walking through the overgrown meadow of the Forsaken Farm. He headed toward the barn, ploughing through the thick matted clumps of grass. Burrs grew around the chicken coop, and vines covered a fence. One part of the roof of the long barn seemed to be imploding. A tarp once stretched over another section had long since frayed into ribbons. He ducked past towering weeds and went in an open doorless space in the side. A long staff lay there, oddly twisted, as if it had once been a hard-wooded young tree from whose stem the flesh and bark had long since eroded with age and warping, leaving only great ridged wooden tendons. The twisted roots formed the head, like a thick cankered knot. It was dark and polished with wear. Slowly Chris bent down and picked it up. '' Now he was facing a strange and mysterious-feeling swamp. Low-branching hemlock crouched amid winding islets and hummocks made by their own moss-hung roots, or the boles of long-fallen trees, or the roots of trees long since gone into the bog. Green spagnum moss grew on the surface of the many boggy pools, which were now mostly black mud, and climbed in feathery pillows over the logs and tree-bases. Fern rose here and there in more open spots. In the dim, detailed gloam of dayfall the swamp had a tumbled, damp appearance. In the dim brown-green gloam details were clear and distinct, the star-shaped towers of the spagnum heads, the mushrooms, roots and boles and boughs of trees. There was a clear wet smell of moss and wet earth. Insects chirred sleepily in the background. There were no katydids here and few mosquitos. Hemlock closed in once more, with here and there an odd maple or oak. Here a tall cluster of red maples rose from a more dry isle, straight as pillars, four in a row and a fifth displaced. And nearby was the queerest sight in all that queer swamp. '' ''A ''hemlock of large size had slumped over, its’ tilted bole now twisting back up toward the light, stubby little branches growing from it. It’s roots arched up and over in a cave bigger than most, roofed with a few black roots hung at the base with moss, high enough to enter stooped; but the floor was black mud. There was utter silence. With a sudden swishing crack Chris brought down the staff upon the tree.'' '' '' '' '' '' '' He looked up. Even though the dream had shifted, he felt no dislocation: one never does in dreams. He was on a high field, upon a windy hilltop; half-ready hay-grass stood tall and waving, the wheat-heads still green. Clover bloomed pink among them. The field sloped down to the right, and when he turned his head he saw nestled among the woolly green hills Highland Lake curving like a big river. On the left and before him a patchy forest crowned the hilltop: low crouching hornbeams with flowing lumpy stems and old ragged maples, and some younger trees among them. Some had been cut down, and the farmer and two other men were sawing them into logs with a chain saw. They got up and headed farther down the gently sloping crown, toward a monstrous tree that rose there. Half had fallen, but the half that remained was still five feet across, one leg of live wood separated by the decay of the trunk between, so that it stood disconnected, joining higher up. The great rugged trunk forked swiftly into limbs. It was an oak. '' '' “We’d better cut up the downed tree, too.” said the farmer. '' '' “Should we knock down the big one?” '' '' “I don’t know, I never liked cutting up really old trees. I think we’ll let it blow down on its’ own.” '' '' Even asleep Chris felt a vast and nameless relief. '' '' He watched as the men walked away. Out of the air a boy appeared, dressed in brown and green, pale and nondescript save for his burning green eyes. Luminous green, like beech leaves. '' '' “That was close,” he said. Or seemed to, at least, for his mouth never moved. Oh, right, this was Forest, who never talks. He was saying it in his head. “The Sign of Spencer Hill nearly fell. We can’t delay any longer. Time or not, I have to call him.” '' '' As Chris watched in complete bewilderment—for even in the dream it was incredible—Forest began to glow. Clothes and flesh and eyes shone with a soft brightness like new leaves. Stronger grew the light, till he hurt to look at the way a flame does,, and then the Wood of the Road uttered a single shouted word: '' '' ''“Fangorn!!” '' The hill seemed to quiver. As if solid stone and earth were jello or something. Chris could only watch and gape, for there was no doubt about it: the tree was coming to life. Bark was flowing and pulsing, wood moved like muscle, twigs fell off as branches shed, till the two main boughs far up that branched off opposite each other, lowered like immense arms allowed to relax. Protuberances bulged in the smaller trunk above the branches, till they formed features, a wise ancient face of bark; and the separated leg of wood grew thicker and huger, while the main bole shrank. On two legs the tree stood, lifting feet made of mighty woven roots, lifting arms that now ended in great hands to shield its’ huge eyes from the fiery light of Forest. Limbs and twigs and leaves fell on every side like rain. Seeing the huge treelike creature in motion like a giant—for even after shedding excess branchage he was still a good thirty feet tall—was the most shocking thing yet. '' '' “I call you.” said Forest. “I am the Wood of the Road. In the name of the Road I have called you awake, last of living Ents, swept here by the Flood, long since fallen into sleep!” '' It was warm but cloudy and growing more humid when he woke up. The clock said 4:30. He showered himself awake and came out, just in time to hear somebody knocking. It turned out to be Mindy, in blue-jean shorts and a shirt with horizontal red and pink stripes. “Can you play?” she said. “Sure. Stevie’s asleep upstairs, so I guess it’s just me.” “That’s all right. You’re cool too.” “So are you.” “Thank you. Wow, I feel all grown-up. I’m trading compliments like an adult.” “Yeah. Boy, wait till you hear what just happened to us!” It took him till supper to finish the tale, and Mom invited Mindy inside. She was quite impressed with the young girl’s good manners and pleasant conversation, and the upshot was that Mindy stayed for supper. Mom was apologizing for the mess and Mindy began laughingly describing how much messier her room was. After supper Mindy and Chris sat on the sofa and kept talking. He told her about his latest weird dream (figuring it didn’t have much sensitive information) and Mindy said, “I want to see that barn. Wouldn’t it be ''cool '' if this was real?” A queer feeling of inevitability came over Chris. Stephen had gone back upstairs, complaining of a headache, but when Mindy asked if Chris could bike with her, Mom gave the go-ahead. “Just be back by dark.” “This is awesome!” said Mindy as they headed outside. “Hey, grab your suit, cause there’s this cool swimming hole I want to show you. It’s a bit of a way but we’re on that side of the hill already.” “Does your mom know where you are?” “I’m latchkey.” She said this in a rather flat voice. “So long as I’m back by dark, nobody cares. Mom works late. Dad comes in and watches TV. I usually make my own supper.” “I’m so sorry.” said Chris sympathetically. “Hey, compared to what most of my friends have for a family, I got it lucky. At least they don’t fight. Or divorce.” The long bike ride all the way to the Old New Hartford loop road was somehow much nicer in Mindy’s company. They shouted remarks to each other as they pedaled, and sometimes Mindy would look back, catch his eye and give a frank smile. Chris would grin back. He was actually rather glad his brother wasn’t along. They crept carefully past Root’s house, just for the fun of it, before bowling down the long hill and pulling up outside the Forsaken Farm. In the warm but grey evening the old farmhouse and the neglected barns and long grass looked unutterably forlorn. “We’ve got to sneak in '' very carefully.” Mindy said conspiratorially. “We don’t want to be caught.” “I’m surprised you believed me so quick.” said Chris. “About earlier, I mean.” “Hey, after Bree being a dragon and a lake-summoning superhero and a Wild Monster Man, a witch cashier and magicians who sing cars to life sound almost normal. Though I admit I’m not totally convinced. I mean, I never saw any of this. I’m taking it all on faith.” They moved fast, hiding their bikes under bushes and ducking into the nearest shed, a sad lean-to affair but large as a garage, with old farm machinery deep in rusted dust. This had a back door and they slunk across another expanse of pillowed grass to where the end of the multisectioned barn stood. “Where did you see it exactly?” Mindy asked in a hushed voice. Chris thought how much more fun it was to be doing this with her; Stephen would be hanging back and complaining they were trespassing. They were in a sort of washroom with a counter and sink and dry dust-brown windows letting in a mournful light. “It was farther in.” They came through a door and out into a very old cattle barn. It was one-story, the loft overhead; the higher barn was at the rear. Ancient manure, rotted by time to a mere earthy crust, softened the outlines of the floor and the drain trough and the crusted stall barriers. The only smell was of old hay and decayed earth; cows must not have seen this place in decades. Through the open end they saw that the farther barn had given way: the roof had descended, intact, to rest on the floor, arched supports and all. “Up here.” said Chris. “This looks more like it.” Both were talking in hushed voices. They walked farther up the deserted barn. There it lay, unmistakable: the staff, as tall as he was, long and knobbed yet worn till the grain of the wood stood out like veins. It was hard as metal. Chris picked it up. “We should leave it at Root’s.” His voice sounded high and panicky even in his own ears. “I don’t think this was supposed to have been left here.” “Yeah.” Mindy sounded subdued. “But later. After we go swimming.” They made their way out of the barn, softly, as if they were leaving a tomb. Maybe it was a tomb, thought Chris. The tomb of generations of toil, and dreams, and lives lived out: and passed away, leaving this huge decaying shell as their only trace. The staff was awkward to balance on his handlebars, but he managed. Mindy took him down W. West Hill Rd (which made both of them laugh) and then along Rt. 44. They passed the meat farm, which was a charming barren mess, all dead trees and mud and plank fences leaning crazily about, and amid all of this a square housebuilding with a big sign for Eaglebrook Farms on it. An old man was in the driveway, talking earnestly to someone. He had a white-grey beard and long grey hair, and wore a white shirt and light grey pants. It cast a strange impression in Christopher’s eyes: was he a Man in Brown? But he wore no brown. They biked along a long dreary slight rise and then down a low hill. “It’s just ahead.” called Mindy. A great swamp lay below on the right, open save for stunted maples, and hills rose, ringing it in. A level followed, after Old North Road entered on the left, and opposite the old antiques store—which was now the Feed and Grain store, after the charming square of wandering old sagging shop-buildings in Winsted center in which it had been, was pulled down—was E. West Hill Rd. A stream crossed under this street, paralleling Rt. 44. They turned up the side road. A sandy parking spot opened on the right just after the bridge, and something like an abandoned road led off under the trees. Here Mindy dismounted. “This is the way in.” she said. “What’s with you?” Chris, the staff in hand, was staring up the road. It passed two houses and rolled upward to vanish into hemlocks. He started and followed her. A sort of path curved between downed tree limbs from the 2011 hurricane and autumn blizzard, and beneath a high bank on the left they followed a flat grade cut into a low slope. A ditch on the right was shut in by a high berm, and hidden by this they could hear the stream in its’ bed a little below. The stream, shallow and stony, was nearly as wide as a river. The grade curved slowly round to the left. “Was this a road?” he asked. “Railroad, I’m pretty sure.” said Mindy. “Same one that has the bike path between Main and Prospect. See how level it is?” They left the bikes behind a bush, but Chris hung on to the staff. The path grew more obvious as they left woodland behind and came to more overgrown parts, where barberry and bracken-fern covered the grade. They crossed an old bridge of concrete slabs, half fallen in. The bank on the left had ended and a swamp now stretched on the right, the one they had passed. Open and weedy with clumps of short sparse swamp maples, alders and red dogwood, it had an odd charming ragged appearance. White pines stood above the sparsely shaded grade, now a causeway piercing the swamp. Olive bushes clustered thicker. Mindy descended the right side through an arch of bushes, jumped a channel and crashed through high weeds and shrubs on a sandy delta. “We’re here!” she said happily. A beaver dam on the left (and behind, in a long curve) had considerably deepened a broad hole in the brook. On the left the RR grade was split by a bridgeless gap, the abutments of old concrete, cut stones flooring the stream: perhaps the remnants of abutments from an older road that the railroad had taken over. Rushing through this, Mallory Brook had eaten out a deep little pond, maybe forty feet circular, before it turned to flow among sandy channels and clumps of elderberry, parallel to the grade. On the far side a swamp maple with two trunks had long ago been undermined and now lay almost in the water. Far off across the open swamp the crown of West Hill rose, green and somber, like a wave. “Isn’t this cool?” said Mindy excitedly as she shed her clothes; she’d worn her suit underneath. Chris changed in the weeds. Mindy had already jumped in when he came, and standing neck-deep she squirted water at him from her mouth. He aimed on purpose so as to splash her when he jumped in. “It’s cold.” said Mindy. “Feels nice.” he answered. “It used to be deeper.” she said, surveying the dam. Water reached only partway up and the pond was a foot lower. “I guess the beaver moved.” “Or got eaten.” “Oh, the poor beaver.” “It happens. Get used to it.” She laughed and struck out. “The tree slid in more.” she said. “It used to be high up and you could drop five feet. But you can still dive from it.” She pulled herself onto the trunk with effort, legs churning valiantly. Chris climbed up with more ability, to his secret satisfaction. The tree bobbled up and down, a foot or so above the water. “How deep is it?” said Chris. “Like, so deep even when I jumped in off the end, when it was higher, I never touched bottom.” Mindy exclaimed. “It’s awesome. You go way down where it’s so cold and you stop moving and then you struggle up into warmer water way above you—probably ten or twelve feet deep.” “Ugh.” said Chris. They jumped in, and liked it so much they climbed up and did it again. And again. Then they swam over to the shallow part and threw sand at each other and then splashed violently. They only realized how late it was when they noticed it was a little dimmer: the grey overcast showed no sunset. “We’d better run.” said Mindy. “We’re going to catch it.” They jogged back to their bikes to try to get warm. When they came to the road, Chris came to a stop and stood, staff in his hand, staring fixedly up the street. “What IS it, Chris? Come on!” “It was here.” ''said Chris. Without paying her any attention he mounted and pedaled off, up E. West Hill Rd. Mindy followed, expostulating,. The hill steepened quickly in the hemlocks and Chris began to walk his bike. “Chris, where the heck are you going?” “It was right up the hill. I’m dead certain of it.” he said. “And we can call our parents from Root’s. It would be dark anyway by the time we got back. Up they climbed. Yes, here the road paused in its’ final climb, running along the edge of a small narrow hollow on the left, spilling over a finger-lip of land. It was a swamp. There was a strange feel about it, as if it was the hidden home of mysterious beings. As they went farther the swamp widened, a flat lap of land amid the hills. Queer feathery hemlock, deep moss, that mysterious feel stronger than ever. Chris stared into the depths of the enclosed swamp. His bike fell, unheeded, behind him. “This is the place.” he said. “The place I saw in my dream.” Mindy didn’t say anything, but she followed him into the swamp, an anxious, watchful look on her pleasant face. As if he’d been here before Chris threaded his way over root-tussocks and black pools and through the ferns, the crouching hemlocks dark around him. The street behind and hill ahead were closed out by the green branches. It was much darker beneath the trees. Then he came to a cluster of red maples, tall as pillars, on a hump of firm ground. And nearby was a leaning old hemlock, roots arching over a hollow floored with mud. As if under a spell Christopher stretched out his hand, the long polished staff of wood as old as stone light in his grasp. With a sudden swishing crack he brought it down against the trunk as he had done in his dream. There was a flash of red-brown fire from the staff as it struck. The blow jarred Chris’s hand and the staff fell from it. A charred wound was blasted into the reddish wood. Two eyes opened in the bole. In a panic Chris and Mindy stumbled backward, Chris wishing he actually did have that funny magic shirt. Now would be a really good time to go invisible. For the solid tree was swirling as though the wood had become liquid. It bulged. It expanded. It bunched and twisted, and squirmed out limbs, and a face: a manlike figure was forming from the tree. Its’ eyes burned like sunlight seen through water. Its’ huge voice, gurgling like deep water under deep stones, thundered words in a language Chris had never heard. The children crashed madly through the ferns, until the nightmare was hidden by the trees. They yanked their bikes onto the road. The houses on the far side of the road disintegrated in a tornado of scattered timbers. Cars crunched, imploding as if crumpled in a huge fist. Dark had nearly fallen, made more so by the boiling shadow that was engulfing the forest. “Run, Mindy!” Chris screamed. “Down the hill!” Fast as they pedaled and fast as their bikes flew, faster still flew the arms of the shadow. Their bicycles flipped over, catapulting them into the leaves beside the road. “''Morkû moko!” the thing was thundering, over and over, and horrible meaning seeped out of the words into Chris’s mind. “I know what he’s saying.” he murmered. “What is it, then?” Mindy screamed. '' “I hate Men.”'' said Chris faintly. A blast threw them to the earth. A passing car exploded in swirling shards. Mindy, partly under Chris, huddled to the ground. Feelers of blackness raced about in every direction, as if probing. It hadn’t destroyed them. It hadn’t struck them because it could not see them. The shirt. He was wearing the magic shirt. He felt it under his own, silky and queer, just as it felt in his dream. He lay close above Mindy. If she held into him they both were unseen. “Listen!” he said. “Hang on to me. He can’t see us. Or hear us. Or find us. '' As long as you’re touching me, you’re safe.” “I don’t understand, what IS that thing?” Mindy was bawling. Riding double on his bike, they bowled down the hill. An earthquake nearly made them crash, and they screeched to a stop as the house at the bottom of the hill turned into a fireball in front of them. Fearfully they looked behind. Out of the forest a storm-cloud was building, ramparts of hard solid brown-white shooting out of a boiling green-black heart. Lightning flamed and lanced. Out of the earth Ronnie Wendy erupted, fiery red light escaping from him. “''Tû!” his voice roared like the voice of the earth. “''Cease!”'' Again the being who now wore the form of storm spoke like gurgled thunder, and as he could in his dreams Christopher found he could understand it: “You are only a Hill! How do you dare to take the part of Morkû?” The storm poured itself down upon the Hill of the Road. Chris saw the sheer power of the being that was in that form, simply quench Ronnie Wendy into the ground. '' “I was buried under hills! No hill masters me!” '' the voice roared. Then the storm crashed overhead, rearing into the air as the human-hater howling turned his rage toward the nearby cities. Ronnie Wendy got shakily to his feet. “Grab my hand.” he said. “I can only earthtravel a little way, after that kind of pounding. We need a view.” Mindy and Chris shakily grabbed his hand. The world became whirling streaks of red and black. They found themselves standing on a lip of rock, below the crown of a lofty height that fell in faces of rock toward them. Trees were growing either side, but a broad view opened before them. The flat valley south of Winsted lay like a gorge below them, Still River placid and snakelike in its’ swamp. Above it rose an immense detached upland, rolling and dark: the West Hill highland. To the right, some nine miles south, they could see the lights of Torrington. The last sad paleness of dusk lay over the land from the west, but the east was black and boiling and glowed an awful tornadic green behind the black. Green and blue lightnings crashed about the charging storm like fire. “Where are we?” said Chris. “The viewpoint behind Bachellor School, on Case Mt just south of Winsted.” said Ronnie. “Here he comes. I hope the rest of us hurry up…I cannot stop him.” “What is he?” Mindy screamed. “He is Tû.” said Ronnie. “Once he was the shepherd of Men and Dark-elves. Now he hates Men. He was woken far too soon. We were preparing to wake him ourselves. All of us would have been there. But he looked upon the earth and saw it filled with Men, and he comes forth in rage unmatchable to lay waste the earth.” The storm now covered the heavens. Like the speed of a gale it was pouring toward Torrington, the lightnings lashing down over the land that he crossed, bursts of fire and debris leaping up from houses that lay in his path. His voice filled the air like the very thunder itself. Like the sound of wind and fire two other voices rose in answer, singing chants of dreadful strength to force back and contain the storm. The clouds boiled as if a contrary wind had set into them, but this was no mere weather of the world. This was the body of a being beyond comprehension. The warring winds crashed and fell, and the grey wall of debris howled onward, and blown upon it like leaves were the figures of two men: Root and Wimbledon. A towering figure of red and brown shadowy light rose up in the path of the storm; and, checked for a moment, it boiled upward. From the figure that stood straddling the valley came a voice like the voice of ten thousand roaring beasts, and it spoke in a language so huge and powerful the very syllables fell like rocks upon the ears that heard it: and Chris staggered, toppling to his knees, both hands clenched over his ears, for he had heard that voice before, he had heard that speech before, falling from the heavens like a landslide made of sound upon the Forgotten Host. The storm spoke in answer, not in the same tongue but in one that Chris realized must have been some kind of Elvish, for it sounded like it: and fifty thousand lightnings seemed to merge as they cannonaded down upon the being of brown light. He bowed before the blast, reeling backward, toppling upon his back. No splash arose from the river he fell upon: he merely went out, like a light. “The Wizard is not strong enough.” whispered Ronnie. “A Maia himself cannot withstand him. What are we to do?” Like an avalanche of cloud the storm poured down on Torrington. A wall of boiling darkness rose to blot out his eerie greenness: pulverized houses, people, cars and buildings. Tû was engulfing the entire city. Like a tower of blue light rose a figure of flame, unbearably bright, standing out of the ruined city like an old rock against the oncoming of the sea. A shield of blue light sprang from his hands, spreading as far to either side as eye could see, forcing back the storm. And the storm spoke, and this time Chris could comprehend him, though the speech was unchanged, even as he could in his dreams. “Arheled, how dare thou shield these polluted people? How dare thou defend their filth? Thou must stand aside, or thou shalt be destroyed.” '' Equally huge but calm as the thunder of a steadfast wind the voice of Arheled sounded in reply. “You are the Ninth of the Men in Brown. You were called here to withstand the Nine Lords of the Night. For this have you been woken.” And the storm roared, ''“Think thee to hold me back, Warden? Think thou to enforce me? Think further! Even the Road is not enough.” '' “But I am not entirely alone.” said Arheled. Feet rooted in the living earth, he strained to hold the shield against the fury of Tû, but was being forced backward, step by giant step. “Ronnie, what is happening? Who is that?” Chris wailed. “That is Arheled.” said the Hill of the Road. His voice was detached, almost unnaturally calm, but in his eyes red light flickered. “The Men in Brown are not enough. Only anger can overcome anger.” Chris saw someone moving out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head. The pale boy Forest was standing there, as if arisen out of the earth, in his usual brown and green. His face was blank, but his eyes burned green. Something flashed in his grasp, a shifting golden mist, seething fire and light churning terribly in an oblong cloud four feet long. “What…is that?” Mindy was saying warily. “This is the Hammer.” said Forest in the same flat quiet voice he had used on Brianna. “Swing him, Forest.” said Ronnie. “The Men in Brown stand with Arheled, but they are not enough, for Tû is angry. Send anger against him.” Forest whirled his arms as if hurling something. A blinding thunderbolt of amber-gold blasted from his hands , and the horrible seething cloud he had grasped was gone. The boy shouted in a dreadful voice, no human voice but somehow many voices bound as one, voices of such titanic rage Chris felt it like a furnace, rising in some awful energetic chant: ''“In forge’s fire of flaming wrath '' ''Was heaviest hammer hewn and wielded!” '' Red and purple lightning exploded like a fountain in the heart of the storm at the impact of the thunderbolt, wrapping the storm like a net of blinding flame. The storm howled. Under the power of Arheled and of the Hammer, the huge clouds imploded, collapsing and clashing in on themselves. “Tû shrinks.” said Ronnie. “The lightning pulls him down. Roaring and wailing the storm shrinks before the double assault. The fire wraps it. The shield encompasses it. Roaring he collapses, changing, until on the ground, beaten to his knees, crouches a huge ragged man all in brown. “Now steps forth Arheled in human shape, and he saith, ''Tû, dost thou yield to the command of the One who set us both in the darkness to rule in the morning? '' And Tû answers, ''I will yield. Then says Arheled, Rise then, my brother. Be thou robed in brown. Be the Ninth of the Men, as I am the Eighth; but be thou ruled by me, for I command them. And Tû gazes darkly upon him but bows his head.” Quiet fell upon the mountain. The evening, lighter now that the storm was gone, lay about them like intricate grey dimness; tree and twig seemed to have more detail than they did in any brighter light. Forest sagged wearily upon a large golden war-hammer, some four feet long and ornately wrought, that he was using like a staff. Ronnie had deep hollows under his eyes and stooped with weariness. Mindy and Chris felt completely dazed; this was too much, things were out of control and they were trapped in a nightmare of gigantic tumultuous events they could not understand. Figures were emerging out of the dimness, descending the path from the hillcrest: a huge man in ragged brown, a quiet oldish man in plaid shirt and brown corduroy pants, Root and Wimbledon and Nuncle Jimmy, Turin and Beleg. One other was with them, the man who had led a bear in the pet parade. An old leather jacket he wore, and pants of worn leather; a big shapeless hat of fur with side flaps sat on his tangled white hair. His short beard had strands of brown about the lips. His face was long and bony, with a sharp nose and deep sombre brown eyes; but their surface was sharp and wary and alive, sparkling with a strange intense delight in small things. In his hand he held the very staff that Chris had found in the barn. “We are the Men in Brown.” said Arheled. “I admit Forest chose a very bad time to wake up Treebeard, for all of us were busy welcoming him and our friend here forgot his own staff.” “I swear, one of these days you’ll forget your own head if you don’t screw it on.” snorted Root. “I dreamed it.” said Chris. “Me waking him up. Er, you up.” he added, looking up fearfully at the huge silent stranger who stood behind the others. '' “I suppose thanks are in order, little human.''” Tû rumbled. He had great harsh craggy features and dreadfully piercing eyes, like wells of dark fire. “Yes, and it seems it was meant to be so.” sighed Arheled. “Still, I wish we had acted more swiftly. Torrington is now a wasteland. And the Nine Lords know we are here.” Back to The Men in Brown